Survival Instinct
by Kalgalen
Summary: If there's one thing Wash is good at, it's surviving through everything.


Word count: 1,145

Disclaimer: written before episode 9 but takes place in an alternative version of season 12. Have you ever thought about how terrifying Wash and Locus would be if they teamed up?

(special thanks to tumblr users soaringsparrows and michaeljcaboosie for proofreading 3)

* * *

Okay.

This was probably one of the stupidest things Felix had ever done. Granted, he'd been doing stupid things for... well, for a very long time, if he was being honest with himself. At eight years old, he'd organized an obstacle course on the sheet metal roofs of the slum. At 15, he'd gotten into fights with boys bigger than him - he'd been pretty small back then, and there wasn't exactly a shortage of large cranky guys who only needed one word too many to try and punch him in the mouth. At 18 he'd joined the army, because there was nothing for him on the pitiful planet he had been raised on - even then he was already dreaming of piles of money and of huge televisions, and the recruiting officer had assured him he'd get both as soon as the war was won. (The years of constant combat and poor wages should have taught him never to believe people's promises.)

At 24 - or had he been 25? Maybe older? He had stopped keeping count by that point - his mistake was trusting Locus. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. When you fight ten-on-one on a daily basis, you need to have someone to watch your back at all times. Too bad his "someone" had decided to betray him for weird-looking armor as soon as the peace treaty had been signed.

Anyway, yeah. Trusting Locus: not such a good idea. Letting himself get captured so that the captains could escape: worst idea ever, hands down. The decision made sense if he stopped to think about it - the Reds and Blues gave strength to the Rebels, a sort of strength that he couldn't replace with all his skills and stolen weapons. He couldn't leave Chorus without one side or the other triumphing, and he would prefer it was the side he fought for - the one his mortal enemy wasn't a part of - that won.

For the time being, Felix was handcuffed to a chair. He had woken up in a dark room about six hours ago, but without any source of natural light he couldn't be sure. He was physically fine, apart from a slight headache and a lump on his forehead where Locus had hit him to knock him unconscious. Probably nothing to worry about. He had been stripped of his armor, leaving him feeling uncomfortably exposed in his undersuit. The scar running across his neck - the one that had signified the end of the partnership between Locus and him - was itching; he could almost sense Locus sharpening his knives.

Felix shifted in his chair. Things weren't really looking good for him.

He was planning what he was going to say to his former companion - still trying to decide whether _"if you wanted to see me in handcuffs, you could have just asked"_ would get him killed or simply punched in the face - when the door of the cell grated open. Felix blinked, blinded by the light suddenly streaming through the doorway, and narrowed his eyes to get a better look at the tall figure entering the room.

That... that wasn't Locus. The shape of the armor was wrong. The color of the accents didn't match either. Felix closed his eyes, hoping to clear his vision. He heard the sound of footsteps, the electric buzz of a lamp being switched on, and finally a voice:

"Hey, Felix."

The mercenary froze. The tone, while collected and reflecting the speaker's self-control, wasn't Locus. Still, he could recognize it. It was a voice he used to listen to when he was keeping an eye on the canyon. It was a voice he hadn't expected to hear again so soon, and especially not in these circumstances.

"Washington?" he whispered incredulously.

Felix opened his eyes and, sure enough, the ex-Freelancer was standing in front of him. Armed. Felix smiled lazily.

"Looking good, Wash. I see the Feds have been treating you well."

The barrel of the gun abruptly lifted to point at his head.

"Shut up."

He sounded annoyed. This was probably a bad idea (one more for the list), but Felix decided to keep talking.

"No, really. Your team of idiots have been getting on my nerves since you got captured, saying that we had to save you, but look at you! You haven't looked so professional in years, Agent-"

A backhanded slap interrupted him - not as strong as it could have been, but hard enough to cut his cheek open. He clenched his teeth, feeling the wound starting to sting as the blood reached to the surface. Washington shook his hand mechanically, as if hitting Felix had hurt him too.

"So, Felix. You're Kimball's second-in-command, aren't you?"

The mercenary threw him a dirty look.

"What the fuck, man? I thought you were a good guy. What would your friends say?"

Wash didn't answer, but Felix caught the sudden and yet subtle tension in his posture. He asked again, taking a step closer, "Are you Kimball's lieutenant, yes or no?"

Felix slumped into his chair, trying to look as relaxed as he could in a hostile environment.

"Tell you what, Wash," he said carefully. "I'll answer your questions if you answer mine. That's fair, right?"

The Freelancer stayed silent for a few seconds, obviously considering the proposition. Finally, he nodded.

"Fine. Go ahead. Answer me, and ask your question."

Felix gave a satisfied smile. Locus would never have accepted that.

"Can you take your helmet off? I want to be sure I'm talking to the real deal."

Once again, Washington hesitated, before reaching for the clasps of his helmet and pulling it off. He looked tired and tense, but his eyes were clear. Whatever had triggered the change in his behaviour wasn't brainwashing or torture - but there had to be _something_. Felix had spent weeks observing Wash as he interacted with his team; there was no way he would have turned his back on them, for any reason. Felix hummed.

"Okay, so... I'm not Kimball's second. Gun-for-hire, remember? We don't make good subordinates. I just do what she asks me to."

"Which is?"

Felix tried to raise a finger before remembering he was restrained. Instead, he just grinned.

"One question, one answer. Don't be so impatient," he said with a faint laugh. Wash gave him a cold look; undisturbed, Felix continued, "Here's my question. What happened to you after your guys escaped?"

"I joined the Federal Army of Chorus," Wash answered tersely, before crossing his arms on his chest.

When it became obvious he wasn't going to say more, Felix commented:

"Still your old melodramatic self, I see. That's kinda reassuring. The stuff I do for Kimball is...basically, stopping the Rebel army from sinking. Finding weapons, babysitting so-called war heroes. Y'know, the usual. What about you? What have you been up to?"

Wash laughed; the sound was a short, dark chuckle. "You can't seriously expect me to answer this. I don't have to tell you anything."

"C'mon, man, we had a deal! Play by the rules!"

Washington loomed over Felix, quietly menacing.

"You don't understand," he said softly, a hint of cold amusement in his voice. "I'm the good cop. Locus isn't going to be as nice as I am. I don't give a shit about your 'rules'."

Felix raised an eyebrow.

"Man, that's cold. What would your friends say?"

The door of the cell opened again, and this time Felix could distinguish the black armor with green accents. Wash stepped back, locking his helmet back into place.

"They're not my friends."

With that he turned away, walking toward the doorway where Locus was waiting. Felix called out after him.

"Wash! Why are you doing this? Why are you working with them?"

The Freelancer didn't even fully turn to face him, simply answering over his shoulder:

"Because that's what I have to do to survive."

Then, to Locus:

"He's all yours."

Felix watched the former Agent's back as the door closed behind him, leaving the mercenary alone with his ex-partner.


End file.
